


The Mask

by yamikuronue



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-31 04:58:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19418968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: Warden Lincoln is done. He wants the taint out of his body and the world can go hang. He's already saved it once; why should he be bothered to save it again? Apparently, Flemeth has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

Warden-Recruit Lincoln. Even the name sounded like mockery to him; he hated it, hated the taint coursing thorugh his bloodstream with every beat of his heart, hated the things he'd done to survive. To end the Blight. To save Ferelden.

He'd only wanted to live a normal life. He'd wanted to stay in his village, find a nice girl, get married. Maybe have kids one day, when he was old enough. Maker, it was hard to remember he was only just fifteen, not after the year he'd had. When he'd been framed for stealing and sentenced to hang, Warden-Captain Duncan had been there, raady and waiting to take advantage of his phlight and recruit him for the Blight. He'd assumed he'd get used to it, that eventually he'd become accustomed to life in the Wardens, but he never had. He'd never been given the chance; his very first battle, they'd all died, leaving him alone with Warden-Recruit Alistair as the last two Wardens standing in all of Ferelden. 

The Wardens could go hang. Morrigan owed him a favor or two by now; surely she could find a way to purify the taint from his blood. Some old magics, some blood magic. He was beyond caring. He wanted out. 

He coaxed his horse into the Wilds, conscious of how strange it was to think of a horse as his. He'd grown up an orphan, kept fed by the generosity of strangers, allowed to live in an old treehouse the children of the town used to play in. He was never quite trusted, not really, but he did good work, and he did his best to be dependable, so begrudgingly, they accepted him. He had been framed for stealing a horse, and now he owned a horse, given to him personally by the King of Ferelden. It was too much. 

The Wilds were almost comforting after all he'd been through. In the year it had taken him to save the world, he'd grown used to the wilderness. He'd never had a chance to become used to castles and formal banquets and being the Guest of Honor, but the wilderness he liked. Still, as he drew closer to his destination, the wilds began to change. The trees grew more menacing, somehow; the sun was blotted out by clouds, and the birds ceased their calling. The forest was too still without them. He kept seeing things moving out of the corner of his eye, never close enough to really see, but enough so that he could tell something was nearby, prowling, maybe even watching them. 

Something small and impossibly fast flew out from the trees at them, and the horse reared, throwing him before bolting back the way they had come. _Shit._ He had two choices: chase after the horse, try to force it to continue, or proceed alone, on foot. _She'll be fine. I can catch her on my way out._ It was irresponsible, but then, he'd never asked to be made responsible for another living being, let alone all of Ferelden. She could cope. He didn't plan to go back to the castle anyway.

Making his way forward, he began to feel some empathy for the beast. Now that he was moving under his own power, a chill ran down his spine, and it seemed harder and harder to move forward the more he walked. Soon, it was all he could do to focus on his footsteps, on the beat of his heart. The landscape was doing strange things, now, too; the trees were getting taller, impossibly taller, and closer together, as if to form a solid wall on either side of the path. Cracks were beginning to form in the path, as well; small cracks at first, but larger and larger as he walked, until he was leaping over small crevices, trying to find solid purchase in a path that no longer wanted him here.

_I just need to ask her to find Morrigan._ Even Lincoln wasn't so desperate as to ask the Witch of the Wilds to cure his taint, but finding her daughter might be something he could afford to pay for. No-one knew where Morrigan had gone; she was out there somewhere, pregnant and alone, and he'd be damned if he didn't do his best to find her now that things had settled. To tell her she was welcome in his camp any time. To beg her to fix him. To propose, maybe. Maker only knew.

Something flew at him from the bushes, and he ducked, feeling something hard and pointed scratch his arms as he covered his head. _A bird?_ It had to be a bird. That was the only thing that made sense. But what bird was so small and so fast? Hawks could be speedy in a dive, but this was the size of a songbird, and it seemed to have pecked him rather than clawing at him with multiple talons. _Has to be a trained bird._

Go back or press on? The choice rattled around his mind as he took each weary step. Go back or press on? It wasn't a choice, not really. He'd come all this way. What did it matter that the landscape seemed forboding, that he was being attacked? It was such a simple favor. And didn't Flemeth owe him, for not killing her when he had the chance? He was being tested, that was all. It was a test, to see how steadfast he was in his determination to achieve his goals. To prove he was worthy of the knoweldge he sought. 

"Why are you here?" He didn't realize he was nearly to the hut until he heard the words aloud. Flemeth stood outside her hut, hands raised, as if waiting for one wrong move to cast unholy magics upon him. 

Words were difficult for Lincoln at the best of times. A life spent on the outside, with barely anyone to speak to, had ingrained in him the habit of silence, of keeping his own council. Now, with her glaring at him and ready to cast, he found words had deserted him entirely. He stared, dumbly, hoping she could read his intentions from his mind. 

"Don't test me, boy." Apparently, she could not. A moment later, he was hit with a blinding light, and he felt himself falling, falling, tumbling head over heels. 

He was in a ballroom. He'd recognize that anywhere: the pointlessly high ceilings, the slick polished floor, the rediculous number of candles, the gowns, the string quartet. The masks. Orlais? He was in Orlais? Then that must be the empress, on that throne. The Winter throne. He didn't know how he knew, but he did -- this was the Winter Palace, and that was Empress Celene. That was all he had time to deduce before an explosion rocked the room, before he was thrown back into a wall, trapped under rubble and choking dust and--

He was on the ground, in the Wilds, Flemeth standing over him. "Stop this, and you'll find what you seek." Then she was gone, and he was dry-heaving, racked with sobs. _The Winter Palace. Someone is going to destroy the Winter Palace and kill the Empress._ He didn't want to save the world again, or even just a country. He just wanted to live in peace, to go home. _Maker. What do I do?_

_And why do I still hear music?_

* * *

He could feel taint coursing through his body with every beat of his heart. The music was always there, in the background, tempting him to distraction, clouding his mind. _The Calling_. It was as undeniable as it was impossible: there was no way, after only a year of Wardening, that this was natural. Flemeth had done something to accelerate it, to twist his hands into gnarled, warped claws, to toughen his skin until his body was like one big callous. He must look a fright now. 

When he had been more himself, hearing the Calling but not so twisted yet, he had purchased the supplies he would need for the trip, and sold the horse. The horse had been skittish of him by the time he found her; there was no way she'd accept him as a rider for long. Better to have her cared for by someone else, and him travel on alone. He had bought lengths of bandages to cover his hands, and a plain mask he had begun decorating to cover his face; they all wore masks in Orlais, so it wouldn't look out of place. Or at least, the nobles did.

It disgusted him, trying to pass himself off as a noble. But what else could he do? Flemeth wanted him to stop this terrorist attack, then he'd do it. It was the only way to get the Taint removed from his body. 

_Maker help us all._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden Lincoln tries to save Orlais.

The Winter Palace was burning. 

Lincoln had disguised himself as a servant, getting into the palace during the chaos of guests arriving. He had survived on scraps stolen from the larder, hiding among the many rooms and the basement, sleeping only where he could find safety. Three days he had spied on the guests, until the day of the ball arrived and he could find no sign of what was to come. He was in the gardens, hoping to stumble across a mage with a sinister moustache clearly waving his hands in the classic spellcasting gesture, when he was thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion.

And now the palace was burning, the Empress was dead, and he had done nothing to stop it. 

Lincoln sat on the ground for some time, watching the flames. _Some hero I am,_ he told himself, watching the world burn before him. _Why does anyone trust me with anything?_

"Admiring your handiwork?" 

The Warden turned, startled by the sound of Morrigan's exhausted voice. "I didn't--"

"I suspected as much. But you are making the others nervous."

"Sorry." Squinting a bit, he could see others behind her in the night, huddled in a clump near the fountain, watching him watch the palace. "Sorry. I just... I failed."

"I am aware. I suspect I can grant you another chance at success."

"How?" the Warden asked, his tone bitter. "Can you raise the dead?"

"Yes. But in no condition to rule Orlais," admitted the Witch. "However, I have been working on a piece of time magic."

Lincoln shifted his gaze back to the apostate, noticing for the first time the closed hand, the item held within. Morrigan opened her hand, offering him the small carved whistle inside.

"A... whistle?"

"A powerful artifact. It will take you to a set point in time, one well before the incident: three days before, to be exact. Shortly after you arrived."

Lincoln took the whistle, staring down at it. It seemed to be carved from bone, impossibly smooth despite the hundreds of tiny runes covering its surface. "I don't know if that's enough time."

"That's all the time you have, Linc." The nickname jarred him; it had always been Alistair that was close enough to call him that, never Morrigan. His gaze drifted to her enlarged belly, asking silently if that was the cause of this sudden closeness between them. She responded with a small headshake, an enigmatic smile. "This is none of your concern," she replied, placing a hand on her stomach. "Focus on your task and I will focus on mine."

"Alright. Well. Here goes." Linc raised the whistle to his lips and blew. 

The sound of the whistle reverberated beyond just the simple, short sound; it echoed, the reflections of sound warping in pitch, in tempo. There was a melody in it, as certain as any he'd ever heard, but as random and chaotic as a set of wind chimes. The ground dropped away, the sound enfolding him, wrapping him gently and carrying him down, down, ever downward. His head spun; he shut his eyes to prevent it and found he could not open them again. He fell, he fell, he fell, until finally the melody faded and he was standing on solid ground once more.

He opened his eyes. 

The Winter palace spread before him, the sounds of carpentry reverberating as the workers prepared the palace for the forthcoming ball. He knew without checking that it was three days prior, that he was looking at the past. That he had time. If only he knew what to do with it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is basically Majora's Mask, the best Zelda game. Surprise!


End file.
